White Horses
by Konstantya
Summary: Centuries of unrequited love for a nation like Russia will do funny things to a girl. AustriaxBelarus. (Now has a sequel, called "To Ride On"!)


Some of you (particularly those that have me on author alert) might be a little confused. **I used to be Sztorm**, I changed the name, explanation in profile, blah blah blah. ^^

General Note: I'm only going to reformat my fics so much when this site is the one at fault. So if the formatting is weird, please check out my profile for more info. Thank you.

**WARNING:** This fic has major BDSM themes. It's kind of porny, in case you couldn't guess, but it's actually, like, plot-relevant porn (I hope DX), because plot always trumps any incidental sexytiems with me. At any rate, if this happens to get pulled for sexual content, you can find it over on my LJ.

Obligatory (but ultimately pointless) CYA: I don't own it.

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**White Horses  
**

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It was Christmas of 1992. The first time she really noticed him.

It hadn't been long since the fall of the Iron Curtain, and Belgium had offered to host the holiday, on the basis that her capital city was also the headquarters of NATO. America and Russia had received firm notes in their invitations, telling them that yes, she knew Cold War tensions hadn't completely dissolved with the Soviet Union, but could they please behave themselves for this one night?

As it turned out, Belgium should have saved her breath for France, who had a bit too much wine, and though he miraculously kept most of his clothes on, he instead went on a groping spree to seemingly make up for his lack of nudity. And on this night, straight-laced Austria seemed to be particularly attractive to his wandering hands.

The first time, he was sober. He turned red in embarrassment and nervously slapped France's hand away.

The second time, he had a glass of wine in him. He didn't turn red, and knocked France's hand away with quite a bit more force.

The third time, he had at least four beers in him, foisted upon him by Prussia. France ended up on the floor with a boot on his shoulder, and his arm twisted up behind him, while Austria sternly lectured about how improper and rude such behavior was, especially when one was a guest somewhere.

Germany apologized very formally to Belgium and muttered something about a good relationship with Japan. Italy cheerfully said it had nothing to do with martial arts and mentioned how Austria used to do that to him as a child when he got out of line, except without the arm-twisting, and then his brother smacked the back of his head and sourly reminded him that failed revolutions were not supposed to be happily reminisced about.

-  
-o-  
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He'd been an empire before, she knew. She'd been with Russia then, and before that, with Lithuania.

Their histories had never really brought them together, directly, though he'd been on good terms with her brother for more than a century—and that was the only time she ever really saw him, even: when he'd travel to St. Petersburg to visit Russia.

There were glimpses and impressions, a love of music and always impeccable, though always conservative, dress. He would attend the ballets and cough from the vodka and, when conversation was warranted, speak to her politely, and she would disdainfully ignore him because he was utterly ignorable. He had soft piano hands and a thin frame and looked like anything _but_ a fighter, anything _but_ like Russia.

How such a nation had managed to remain the head of an empire since the 15th century was entirely beyond her. She had always attributed it up to some strange, political fluke.

-  
-o-  
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A number of years later, Austria hosted Christmas. She traveled to Vienna with her brother and sister, because their economies still weren't doing well, and they could all do with saving some gas and money. Russia drove, and she sat silently in the passenger seat, stealing long looks at him, and Ukraine sat in the back, bravely taking it upon herself to warm the atmosphere with tremulous talk.

He greeted them at the door, and showed them to the dining room, and they ate and drank, and then retired to his lounge. England played billiards with Denmark, and Spain set some music on, and Poland pulled her sister into a folk dance. The night wore on, and she wandered Austria's halls, her dress shoes clicking against the floorboards.

"Bro-ther…" she called, like one would with a lost puppy, "you owe me a kiss… That's the way it works. America told me. If you're caught under a piece of mistletoe, you have to kiss." There was the subdued click of a latch, and she ran around the corner, finding the hall empty.

A pair of double doors sat in the center of the corridor. Glass-paned, the room behind them too dark to make many details out. Slowly, she walked up to them, pulling out a knife in preparation. Doorknobs never seemed to want to work properly for her for some reason, and she was surprised with this one did.

The room was lit very dimly by a small corner lamp, and on the other side sat a grand piano, shrouded in shadows. "You owe me a kiss," she said again, and circled around it to the back.

Russia wasn't there.

She bent over, peering under it. No Russia. Inside? No Russia.

She glowered petulantly. Deceitful instrument. If it wasn't so big and bulky, she wouldn't have thought her brother capable of hiding behind it. If only it was smaller, like the violin next to it, or the clarinet over there, or…

She was in the music room, she realized. So many instruments, arranged exactly, polished to perfection, Austria's great piano the centerpiece of it all. He hadn't forcefully lectured France this year. Whether that was because France was busying himself with Greece and Seychelles, or because Austria had yet to ingest a pitcher of beer, she wasn't sure.

She found it odd that such a small, inconsequential incident was so stuck in her mind. The set of his jaw, the disapproving tilt to his mouth, his stern brow. His boot on France's back. Idly, she ran her pale fingertips over the dark sheen of the piano.

Would he lecture _her_ if she got out of line?

She stared at the reflection of her fingers on the glossy lacquer, and then the reflection of her knife, harsh silver contrasting with liquid black. She was just about to touch the tip of the blade to the finish, just about to gouge the reflection with the reality, when a hand suddenly seized her wrist.

"What," none other than Austria, himself, snapped, "do you think you're doing?"

She blinked, jerking her eyes up to his, and her heart suddenly started pounding, because she hardly even knew the answer, herself.

He was nothing like Russia. His hair was dark, and his face was thinner, his nose sharper, his eyes more indigo than violet, and he was gripping her wrist. He was gripping her wrist, and it seemed that this fact suddenly occurred to him as well, because his gaze nervously dropped to their hands, to the knife still in hers, and she suddenly needed to get far, far away, very, very quickly. She went to grab the blade with her other hand, went to cut herself free, because she knew violence not diplomacy, and this time it was self-preservation, not concern for his piano, that made him catch her, and _yes_, she thought, _yes, hold my wrists and pin me down and make me yours_, and the desire was so sudden and so strong, she actually felt her knees go weak from the force of it. The knife clattered to the floor.

Her blood was racing, and her breaths came in shallow gasps, and Austria looked some combination of afraid, confused, and concerned.

"Belarus—" he began, quietly, but was interrupted by Ukraine's voice:

"Bela!" she called, almost timidly, from somewhere down the hall. "We're leaving! Russia sent me to come get you."

There was a beat where they simply looked at each other, and then she jerked away from his grasp, fleeing out the door and down the hall, her knife left forsaken on his floor like some Cinderella slipper.

They drove home, Russia nervously chattering about how pleasantly mild Austrian winters were, while she sat, silent, in the passenger seat. And when Russia pulled off and asked Ukraine to take over for him, claiming he was tired, she clasped a hand around her wrist and remembered long piano fingers.

-  
-o-  
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It was mid-January when she made her way back to Vienna. She came alone, unannounced, and when he opened the door, he blinked, just barely concealing his surprise.

"Belarus," he said. He was dressed casually—casually for him, in pale slacks and a dark green sweater, a collared shirt and tie underneath. The knot of it, she noticed, was secured with a collar pin. Russia never wore collar pins. Russia rarely wore ties, period.

"I came to retrieve the knife I left here during the holiday," she curtly informed him.

"Ah…yes," he said, remembering. "I was intending to return it through the mail." Intending, but still hadn't three weeks later. They looked at each other for a moment. "Won't you please come in?" He took a step back, around the awkwardness of the entire situation, and gestured to his front hall.

She hesitated, just for an instant, and then stepped in, her patent-leather shoe tapping against his threshold. She had dressed well, in striped black stockings and her skirt with the white lace, navy blue coat and dove grey gloves. Not that that was very important. Not that that was very different from what she normally wore.

"Might I take your coat?" he asked.

"No. Thank you," she said, coldly, and he inclined his head politely.

"Well," he said. "If you don't mind waiting here for a moment, I'll go get it for you." It was her turn to nod, and he took his leave, disappearing down one of the halls.

She stood in his foyer, feet together, hands clasped in front of her, and waited.

He returned no more than a couple minutes later, her knife in hand, and thoughtfully ran a finger along the flat part of the blade before twirling it around and presenting it to her, hilt first. She took it, and, almost suspiciously, gave it a looking over.

"You polished it." It was almost an accusation. The fact that she just happened to have the tip pointed at his mid-section was not a coincidence.

"It wouldn't do for the blade to dull from rust," he pointed out mildly, his eyes on hers. She couldn't tell whether the words were a challenge or a simple statement, and after a moment, she lifted her chin, turned on her heel, and swept out his front door without another word.

"You're welcome," he called, in that mild tone of his, when she was half-way down his snow-dusted walk-way, and there might have been a drop of amusement in his voice this time around.

She looked back over her shoulder—to his thin frame in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his spectacle-covered eyes watching her leave—and glared.

-  
-o-  
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She had loved Kievan Rus. Loved him like a daughter loved a father, and when Mongolia had stormed across the Kalka and shot an arrow through his chest, she had screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

Ukraine had put her in Russia's arms and pulled them away to safety, and she, she who was the youngest and the smallest between them, had clung to her brother, because he was the biggest and the strongest.

And when Mongolia returned, fifteen years later, and fractured them apart, when Lithuania found her and took her in and adopted her language to try to make her smile, she had clung to him still, like some anchor with its chain broken, plunging into the dark depths of the sea.

-  
-o-  
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"Brother," she once demanded of him, "how is it you can have enough time to visit Iceland, who in the middle of the ocean, and yet don't have enough time to visit me, who is right next to you?"

Russia tried to back his bulk even further into the corner and laughed unsteadily. "It was just dinner—just a business dinner!" he said, and when she put her hands on his shoulders and her head against his chest, she felt his heart ratchet up into fifth gear. "I-I'll go out to dinner with _you,_ yes?" he tried, and she looked up at him, hope written all over her face.

"Really?" she asked.

He bobbed his head furiously. "After the next world meeting. I'll meet you at that bar, the one that England always likes to go to afterward, yes?"

She wrapped her arms around him then, and though he gave a little nervous cry, she closed her eyes and serenely whispered, "Yes."

And so the meeting came and went, and she stood in the bar, the one that England always liked to go to afterward. Prussia was already drunk and trying to start a fight. France was agreeing to it, so long as it was a naked fight. Germany was valiantly trying to keep his brother's clothes on. America was telling some story to Hungary, gesticulating vivaciously. Hungary was laughing brightly. Austria was drinking.

Russia wasn't there.

Russia was never there.

-  
-o-  
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She suspected she was crazy.

There had been rumors of it before, of course, whispered cautiously behind her back. Russia had fearfully shouted it to her on more than one occasion while running away from her affections. But for the first time, she was beginning to think there might be some truth to the accusations. Why else would she be breaking into Austria's house—Austria, a nation she barely knew and had certainly never paid any attention to before—with the sole intention of getting caught?

She slipped in through one of his ground-story windows, landing her in an unlit and unfamiliar back hall. Brushing her skirt straight, she shut the window, and then set off. After a few minutes, she heard a door close. Footsteps followed, moving in her general direction, and then suddenly stopped in a nearby hall.

"Who's there?" he demanded, and she glared at the floor for making so much noise. Didn't it know musicians had fine hearing? And speaking of which, _where_ was his music room again?

"Prussia, is that you?" His footsteps resumed, his pace quicker and firmer. Irritated. "Prussia, I swear, if you're here to draw insulting things on my boxer shorts again…"

To hell with trying to be quiet. She bolted around the next corner, and she could hear his feet break into a run, chasing after. Down one hall, and then the next, and she saw the open doors of his music room, heard his longer legs catching up to her. She ran in and spun around, a knife pointed threateningly toward his grand piano, and Austria skidded to a halt, just inside the doorway.

He wore a three-piece suit, minus the jacket. White shirt, grey trousers and vest, burgundy tie, black shoes. He looked like a professor, maybe a librarian, certainly not like Russia.

His gaze flicked between the blade and her face, and then the blade and his piano, before finally settling on the knife, his mouth determined, and she wanted to laugh at that—because he loved his music more than he feared her, and that was funny for some reason, because _everyone_ feared her, even Russia, _especially_ Russia, and sometimes his rejection was enough to make her want to cry and scream and tear something to pieces.

She lunged, and so did he, catching her arm and whirling her away in some sort of perverted dance. Her back hit the wall and he fought to keep her there with the line of his body, his hands trying to wrestle the knife from her fingers. It was a heady sensation, pressed between him and the wall, and it weakened her grip just enough so that he was able to pry the weapon from her hand. He tossed it far out of reach, onto the carpet that covered most of the floor, and took a step back from her.

"Might I ask what—?" he started to huff, tugging his vest straight—but he never finished, because he had moved away from her, and it wasn't enough, it wasn't enough, and she leapt toward that grand instrument of his again, a second knife drawn. He caught her from behind, jerking her back against him, fingers digging painfully into the forearm of her attacking hand, and _oh,_ if he was this forceful now, just how much _more_ forceful would he be if she actually did some damage?

She snaked a leg behind her and around his, pulling his feet out from under him, and he managed to grab her sash, unraveling the bow at her waist and yanking her down with him. She made a desperate lurch toward the keyboard, and he seized her ankle, hauling her away from it, and then she found her knife torn from her fingers, her back shoved roughly against the floor, her arms pinned at the sides of her head, and there he was, craning over her, shins and dress shoes holding down her legs, and she went breathless.

His chest was heaving, his hair mussed, his eyes hard, his grip unforgiving, and his patience gone. He jerked her wrists together above her head, into one hand, brushed his hair back into place and straightened his tie with the other, and then, mouth firm and dreadfully silent, went about checking her person for any more weapons. Her arms, her sides, the sash around her waist, the pockets of her skirt, her legs—and he stopped at the telltale feel of a hilt beneath fabric. His expression darkened, and his eyes flicked up to hers.

"You'll forgive me," he said, very tersely, inclining his head in a mockery of proper form, and it was true—she _would_ forgive him, because it wasn't a polite request; it was a statement bordering on order.

His gaze never leaving hers, his hand dipped under her skirt. Her breath hitched, and after a moment of brusque searching, he plucked two blades from the tops of her stockings, one from each leg, and discarded them in the direction of the others. Confident she was disarmed, he tugged her skirt back into place the best he could. He didn't apologize, and didn't seem ready to release her anytime soon, and for a moment, he just stayed like that, silently glaring down at her, as if trying to figure out just what to do with her. Her breath came rapidly, and it had little to do with their recent tussle.

"Would you mind telling me why you keep going after my piano?" he finally asked, indigo eyes boring into hers, and she swallowed, her pulse pounding against his palm.

"Because you keep going after _me,"_ she whispered, and he blinked at this confession. He stared at her, and the only sound was that of their breathing.

"You used to be an empire," she said. Austria's brow quirked disparagingly.

"That was a long time ago."

"You must miss it. All that power." His fingers twitched against her wrists. Her chest rose and fell with short, aroused breaths, and she went on, inanely to her own ears. "Italy Veneziano said you would pin him under your boot if he tried to rebel, and that one time you were so fed up with him you actually tied him to a tree—"

"Don't tempt me, _Frau Weißrussland."_ The words were enunciated very clearly and very threateningly, and the sound of her name in his native German sent a thrill down her spine to her very core. And instead of heeding his advice, she whispered—

"Why not?"

There was a beat, where his eyes flashed and his lips thinned, and those were the only warnings before his mouth descended on hers, hard and punishing and so very _there_. He took her chin in his fingers, held her lips to his and forced them open, greedily exploring. And when he had his fill, he broke away, only to turn her head to the side and press his mouth hungrily to her cheek, his hand wandering down the skin of her throat. "You're beautiful," he murmured, like she was something to possess, and she trembled, eagerly surrendering to his touch.

"Austria," she breathed, just to find out how very different his name tasted on her tongue.

He drew her up then, off the floor and into his arms, threaded his fingers through the base of her hair, and tugged, tipping her head back, so she had no choice but to look up at him. " 'Sir,' " he corrected firmly. "You'll address me as 'sir.' " She would swear her mouth watered at the words.

She swallowed, her eyes glazing over in adoration. "Yes, sir," she said. He kissed her again, his hand still in her hair, the other sliding downright possessively down her back, fingers splayed, pressing her hips against him. Her own hands, that had been resting tentatively on his so-much-thinner shoulders, convulsed and clutched at him, _wanting_ and _needing_, scrabbling down his so-much-leaner torso, groping for his belt and pants and—

The next thing she knew, she had been yanked across his lap, face-down, her arms pinned to the floor again. He flipped her skirt up, and she gasped when he struck her.

"Did I give you permission to touch me?" he asked, and she blinked feverishly, a single spot on her rear stinging. A baton, she realized. It hadn't been his hand, but a conductor's baton.

"I—I just—" Two more strikes. She actually moaned this time, her back arching wantonly.

_"Did_ I give you permission?" he repeated, voice harder.

"N-no," she got out shakily. He struck her a fourth time, and she corrected herself. "No, sir!"

"Now. What should you say when you've done something wrong?" The tip of the baton rested against her, waiting. She swallowed, dazed with desire.

"I'm sorry, sir." For good measure, she breathlessly added, "It won't happen again."

There was a beat, and then the baton flicked off of her. "Quite right," he said, sounding satisfied. There was a pause, some slight shifting, a rustling of fabric, and then his tie was replacing the fingers around her wrists. He wrapped them tightly, securing the silk to the leg of his piano, and then settled back, as if to survey his handiwork.

Her skirt was still flipped up, and he smoothed his palm over her backside, tickling the line where ivory skin met white lace, idly plucking at her garter straps. "Nobody wears these anymore," he sighed wistfully. "Not the way they used to, at any rate." He traced the tops of her grey stockings, dipped under the edges, and resurfaced near the apex of her thighs, drawing a whimper from the back of her throat. Helplessly, she wriggled in his lap.

_Oh, please,_ she wanted to say, and bit her lip to keep the words from coming out.

Almost as if he'd read her mind, he folded her skirt back down just then, and his fingers went to her sash, untying it the rest of the way, and then to the buttons at the back of her dress, somehow managing to shimmy it over her head. It bunched around her arms in a mass of ruffles and lace, unable to slide completely off. "Turn over," he ordered, and—rather awkwardly and not easily—she did. His tie around her wrists tightened a little bit more with the twisting, and her blood raced a little bit more.

He slid both his hands down one leg, over her knee, and all the way to the ankle, where he unbuckled her shoe, gently setting it off to the side. Then he did the same with the other leg and then moved back up, kneeling in front of her. Her blouse was the only substantial thing she still wore, and, achingly slow, he untied the ribbon at her collar, exposing the base of her throat, and then picked the buttons open, one by one.

"Oh," he breathed, expression softening. He parted the front of her shirt. "I certainly haven't seen one of _these_ in a very long time." His hand trailed down the busk of the corset, white and sturdy and genuine, his eyes positively drinking her in. The tips of her breasts had come free from the undergarment and now sat, pink and hard, right along the neckline, rising and falling with her gasps. He tugged the shirt out from under her, gathering it above her head with her dress, then smoothed his hands down her arms, his thumb along her collarbone, his mouth following his fingers and plunging lower, and she arched at the contact. Her legs jerked, desperately wanting to wrap around him and press him against her hips.

"Please," she whimpered, unable to contain herself any longer. "Oh, please."

"And have to remove all of this?" he asked, hands indulging themselves with her hips and stockings, the garter straps serving to cage in the one article she so urgently needed removed. "A crime, surely."

The noise she made could literally have been described as a sob.

Idly, his fingers made their way back up her leg. "But these…" he mused, toying with the edge of her underpants, causing her hips to lift toward him, pleading for his hand to move closer. "These aren't so very uncommon…"

He moved then, away from her, and she died—and then he returned, and her heart started back up, and her eyes went wide and dark and dilated upon seeing one of her knives in his hand.

"I don't suggest you move," Austria said, a thoughtful bit of advice, and knelt down again, in between her legs.

When the flat side of the blade touched the skin of her leg, she almost jumped, letting out a small cry—because she was burning, and the steel was so cold, and so sharp, she knew, and _God,_ nothing had ever felt so right. He slid it along her thigh, under the lace at her hip, rotating the blade so that she could feel the edge of it, pressing and prickling, on the verge of slicing her skin.

He caught her gaze and held it. Her breath stopped. And then he pulled the knife up, and it was like a weight was lifted off her very being when it cut through the fabric.

She exhaled, gasping, feeling drunk or drugged, her chest heaving, her eyebrows knitted tightly together, her body trembling with the release. "There's one more," he reminded her, sounding pleased, and she couldn't help but hold her breath again when the knife-point trailed across her stomach to the other side. The fabric fell from her hip, and she shuddered violently.

"Please," she panted, desperate and delirious, unable to get enough oxygen. "Oh God, please, please, please…"

He pushed the now-scrap of cotton and lace out of the way, and mildly raised his eyebrows upon seeing the state she was in. "Well," he remarked simply, setting the knife off to the side. He removed his glasses, folded them, and placed them on top of his piano. Then he sat back on his feet and began unbuttoning his shirt cuffs, regarding her leisurely as he turned them back against his forearms. She shivered anxiously under his gaze, restrained and half-naked and laid out before him, begging, as she was.

He moved over her, leaned down so tantalizingly close, she could feel the brush of his clothes, the heat of his skin, and almost—almost, but so heartlessly not quite—the weight of his body. She writhed under him, trying to press herself to him, but he kept himself just beyond her reach, and she wanted to sob because of it.

" 'Please' what?" he murmured in her ear, torturously innocent.

"Make me yours. Oh God, _please_, make me yours."

There was the jangle of a belt buckle, a shifting of fabric and leather, and then he positioned himself right against her, touching but not inside, and she was so on edge that even that meager contact made her yelp and toss her head back.

"Look at me," he told her, and she did, blinking him into focus. He took her chin in his hand again, fingers firm against her jaw-line. "I won't have you pretending you're with someone else. Is that clear?"

He was so authoritative, so sweet and cruel that she could have kissed him. "Yes—" she gulped, barely audible. "Yes, sir." He finally entered her then, deep and exquisite, and she couldn't help but arch back, her eyelids fluttering shut as a shattering cry was pushed from her.

His fingers were hard, pulling her chin back down. "Me," he reminded her, his eyes glinting possessively. "Mine."

"Yours, yes," she whispered.

He kissed her, his tongue claiming her mouth as he began moving, claiming the rest of her, and his hands—his delicious, deft piano hands—ran over her body, kind and caressing one moment, then sharp and demanding the next, stroking and plucking when and where it suited him, drawing sounds from her as if she was no different from any other instrument in the room.

Right then, he owned her, and right then, she loved him for it.

-  
-o-  
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It became something of a routine.

She hadn't intended it to. She really wasn't sure _what_ she'd intended, going to his house that first time, but it was quite safe to say that she hadn't intended for there to be a second—or a third, or a fourth, or fifth, or tenth.

Afterward, he'd untied her arms and gently massaged the soreness from her wrists, gathered her tired, trembling body into his lap and brushed her hair behind her ear, and she must have fallen asleep then, because she'd woken up the next morning in one of his guest rooms, her clothes cleaned and pressed, her knives neatly lined up next to them, and she had left without seeking him out, because it had only been the one night; he wasn't Russia, and he didn't matter.

But Russia still avoided her, and sometimes he ran off to Lithuania, or China, or America, and somehow she would find herself at Austria's, tied to his bed or bent over his piano bench, begging him to complete her.

-  
-o-  
-

It was after another world meeting. After another world meeting when she was supposed to go home with Russia, but had returned from the ladies' room to find only Germany and Austria, walking out of the very empty conference room. Upon seeing her they stopped, the latter blinking mildly, the former stiffening apprehensively.

"Where is Russia?" she demanded, because he had said he would stay, he had said he would wait for her. Her hands clenched in her skirt folds, grabbing knives through fabric.

Germany cleared his throat to cover his panic, mumbled a very hasty good-bye and apology, and then sidled away, claiming he had a lot of very important work to do. Austria dryly raised an eyebrow at his neighbor's desertion.

"I hear he followed the Italies home for a visit," he finally answered. "He's very fond of them, you know." He looked at her then, perhaps a little mockingly. She glared, coldly and furiously, itching to slice that well-cut suit of his to ribbons.

"I hear your ex-wife is very fond of America," she shot back, deciding to forsake her knives, just this once. "She has a date to go horseback riding with him."

His mouth twitched down, ever so slightly. He sniffed, and pushed his glasses up on his nose. "There's a closet at the far end of the hall," he remarked, tugging on his fine leather gloves, looking in the direction of which he spoke. "Very sturdy shelves."

She had to force herself to not grab his arm and run down the corridor.

.

.

.

* * *

A/N: Omg. This is seriously the porniest thing I have ever written. I'm so embarrassed. OTL. (But LOL, oh Austria. Who cares if she's batshit; she's pretty and elegant and lets you play empire with her. Sometimes I wonder about you.) Time will tell if I'm actually happy with it; as of right now, I'm just sick of it, and I needed to post it to get it off my mind.

And yes, corsets generally need to be worn with liners, otherwise you get things like welts and chafing, but let's hand-wave it and say that it wasn't tied very tight for freedom of movement, and had a built-in liner. 'Cause those _do_ exist. Also, anyone who commonly wears thigh high stockings instead of pantyhose would know that the sensible way to wear your underwear is _over_ your garter belt/straps, not under, but, um…maybe Belarus had a brain fart? Maybe she chose to wear it under in anticipation of the sexy? (Because really, while over is more convenient, under looks hotter, and THIS WAS PORNY OKAY LEAVE ME ALONE.)

In other news, this was kind of based on an old, unfilled kink meme request from 2009 (that I found when searching for the pairing), calling for Austria/Belarus, in that order. The request was something along the lines of, "Austria gets sick of Belarus bitching about her unrequited love for Russia, and doms the hell out of her, because he's aristocratic and lordly like that. Belarus quickly submits, because it's everything she always wanted that Russia never gave her." So if you happened to request this, way back when, um…enjoy?

The rest of it is based on the fact that I have a soft-spot for 1.) taking crack premises/pairings and trying to make them seriously work, 2.) characters who aren't quite right in the head, and 3.) dark, plot-relevant sex.

I'm going to quietly go back to historical fic now. DX

EDIT: It's been brought to my attention that _"Fraülein"_ is something of an archaic, derogatory title nowadays, and as this takes place in modern times, I've since changed it to the more appropriate _"Frau."_ My apologies for that mistake.


End file.
